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09 September 2020 @ 02:10 pm
I guess I should make a masterlist of my fanfiction so I, at least, know what it is I've written, and what goes with what.


Title: Vampires Suck
Genre: Parody, humor, AU
Rating: PG 13
Pairing: KiHae

Title: Spread Fire Through the Soul
Genre: general
Rating: pg
Pairing: none

Title: 2062
Pairing: Bandfic
Genre: Crack, SciFi.
Rating: PG for old people humor

Title: What Happens On Ember Island
Pairing: KangTeuk, HanChul, Fanboy Kyuhyun
Genre: General, Crossover, Humor
Rating: PG13


Title: Submersion
Pairing: KyuChul, others possible later, suject to change
Genre: SciFi, Fantasy, Adventure
Rating: PG - 13
Status: Sort of Working on it

Title: Suju Assassin
Pairings: multiple
Genre: Action/Allegory
Rating: PG-13
Status: In Progress

Chapter 1 : Chapter 2 : Chapter 3 : Chapter 4

KyuChul Week

Title: Turtleneck
Pairing: KyuChul (Kyuhyun x Heechul)
Genre: Crack. Friendship(?). Puns.
Rating: PG

Title: Hear, Don't Touch
Pairing: KyuChul (Kyuhyun x Heechul)
Genre: Angst, AU
Rating: PG -13

Title: Security
Pairing: KyuChul (Kyuhyun x Heechul)
Genre: Crack. AU
Rating: PG -13

Title: Couvade
Pairing: KyuChul (Kyuhyun x Heechul)
Genre: crack, au
Rating: PG-13

Title: Taste the Rainbow
Pairing: KyuChul (Kyuhyun x Heechul)
Rating: PG-13
Genre: comedy, fluff

KiHyuk Week

Title: 'Retreat' means 'Run Away While You Still Can'
Pairing: KiHyuk
Rating: PG13
Genre: Humor, fluff

Title: Why Mimes Don't Wear Stilettos
Pairing: KiHyuk
Rating: PG13
Genre: Crime Thriller

Part 1 --- Part 2

Title: Parenting 101
Genre: Disney Channel
Pairing: KiHyuk
Rating: PG

Title: Dirty Little Freak
Pairing: KiHyuk
Rating: PG13
Genre: Romance

Bonamana Challenge

Title: Come Sail Away
Pairing: SiHan (main), SiHanChul, Implied Kyu(Mi?)Min, various others
Genre: Pure, unadulterated crack with a dash of angst and a (happy?) ending. It turned out more philosophical than I intended.
Rating: PG13

Title: Bad Reputation
Genre: Crack. Humor.
Rating: PG
Pairing: Kyuhyun/Siwon friendship

Title: Dosa
Genre: Existentialism? Angst? Comedy? Can I phone a friend for this one?
Rating: PG
Pairing: Sungmin/Eunhyuk friendship, Eunhyuk/the hat, Ninja!Eunhae, Ninja!Kyumin

Crows Zero Fanfiction

Title: Moshi Moshi no Shi
Genre: action?
Rating: PG13
Status: I don't really believe I'll ever even look at it again.

Title: Carry On Wayward Son
Genre: general
rating: pg
Title: This Ain’t Seaworld, This Is Real As It Gets.
Genre: Pirate?
Pairing: MiMin, One-sided KyuMin, QMiMin
Rating: PG13
Summary: After a mission gone bad, Sungmin is caught out in the middle of the ocean, with nothing but a life vest for company. It does nothing for his pride that he ends up being rescued by a rich runaway that doesn’t know the first thing about sailing. A birthday present for lyuna .

A/N: They’re like the Pirates Who Don’t Do Anything. Only sexier. If anyone can be sexier than Larry the Cucumber. Also, since they’re pirates, and they travel all over, I’m going to assume they know more languages in this story than they actually do.

So, your argument is already invalid.


There was a loud boom, and the smell of acrid smoke filled the corridor. Sungmin’s breathing was harsh, his chest heaving as he sat behind a corner, the pin of a grenade in his teeth. The explosive itself was held aloft in his hand, his thumb on the trigger mechanism.

He did his best to lengthen is breaths. Patience. He needed patience. And, sure enough, at the slightest glance around the corner, gunfire spat against the opposite wall as Sungmin cursed, lobbing the grenade down the corridor. He didn’t wait for the explosion before he stood up and broke into a run, before smacking a hand over his ear piece, trying to hear anything beyond screams, gunfire, and static.

“Zhou Mi, I will kill you!” he shouted, skidding to a halt and taking another hallway. How many could the ship possibly have?

I’m sorry,” The voice spoke more of honest apology rather than any fear at the threat. “I’ll check harder for reinforcements next time, but the radar only goes so far, and if they fly in really low-”

“I don’t need excuses, I just need a way out!” Sungmin almost sobbed out. He wrestled a Smith & Wesson out of one of his side holsters, turning around and firing just in time. There was a cry of pain, a spurt of blood, and Sungmin was running again.

“Oh, um . . . Next left!” the voice in his ear chirped. Sungmin was halfway through another hairpin turn when Zhou Mi shouted, “No! No! Your other left!” The sudden turn took away most of Sungmin’s balance and nearly made him smack his head against the wall as he dove, but a quick burst of fire kept the guards busy just long enough for him to keep running.

“You’re sure this is the way?!” Sungmin shouted, periodically looking over his shoulder as he ran.

“Ye-yeah! There’s a cargo bay at the end of the hall, and you can open the loading hatch and get out.”

Sungmin nodded, even if Zhou Mi couldn’t see it. He didn’t have time to think about it right now. Someone was in the process of opening the hatch to said cargo bay, and Sungmin barreled into him, driving his elbow into the man’s nose as he made a break for bay doors, jumping over him even before the other man hit the ground.

They were opening, a helicopter waiting. A fat man in a grey pinstripe suit being hurried there between armed guards, who turned and shouted when they noticed Sungmin’s approach.

But the man’s expression had gone from harassed and frustrated to maniacal, his lips stretching into a grin as he pulled up his gun and began firing. A bullet to take out the nearest guard, and one for the man in the suit. Sungmin was going to escape, and get paid. And he was so, so getting laid. Zhou Mi didn’t even get to say anything about it this time.

Sungmin didn’t even stop, taking out the rest of the guards with brutal efficiency. Even the man in the helicopter was dead before he had a chance to take off his seatbelt. Sungmin applauded himself for his work (figuratively) and walked over to the open cargo bay doors.

The ship was a lot taller than it looked. The sound of boots thudding through the hull was also getting a lot louder. “Zhou Mi, I will kill you for this. I really will this time,” he muttered, grabbing a discarded life vest from a pile near the hatch.

Well, just make sure you turn on your locator, or I won’t be able to find you,” Zhou Mi replied absently.

Sungmin nodded, biting his lower lip and thinking he still can’t see you, but he didn’t really care. The jumping and the swimming was really his least favorite part. “Just put one foot in front of the other,” Sungmin said to himself, his voice going up an octave or two in terror. Not that he would ever admit it. He could feel the wind grabbing at him, as if it were trying to pull him to his death in the ocean below.

Goodbye, cruel world, he thought, clutching at his life vest and stepping out into nothingness. His eyes were shut tight, and he held his breath, waiting to hit the water as his heart beat frantically.

Then in a moment, after a forever of falling, water was pressing in against him on all sides. You’ll float, you’ll float, you’ll float, he thought to himself, just don’t fight it. Soon enough his head broke the surface of the waves and he sucked in a huge breath, just glad to be free. But the mission wasn’t quite over. After he spent a few moments centering himself, he dug around in his pocket for the little waterproof locator Zhou Mi had given him.

Wrapped securely in his fist, he pressed the button on the outside of the plastic shell, brought it above the waves, and kissed it.

Just as a particularly nasty wall of water washed over him. In his flailing, the locator slipped out of his hands, and the moment Sungmin righted himself, he tried to dive after it. But there was nothing to see in the murky blue water.

When he reached the surface one more time, the most hardened criminal in the seven seas, wanted in more than thirty countries, let his dignity drift away in the current and cried.


Perspective. It was such an odd thing. Sungmin rarely paid any sort of attention to the perspectives of others, or really, even his own, except when he needed to get an angle on a difficult target. But treading water in the middle of the ocean for the better part of a day tended to give perspective a new meaning. In particular, it made Sungmin consider the possibility that the perspective the universe had on him wasn’t all that great.

In fact, Sungmin was gathering substantial evidence that the universe wanted him dead. But he was scrappy, so there was no way he was just going to let it win. This was just a minor setback. More major as far as the minor setbacks of his life went, but all the same. It couldn’t get him down.

But he was sore all over from the mission, and having to do everything that was possible to stay afloat – which was hard to do in the constantly rolling waves, even with his life-vest. His skin was getting pruned, and the salt couldn’t have been doing anything good for his complexion.

Then there were the sunburns. He and Zhou Mi had been working together for a long time, so he knew the dangers of going on deck for more than a few minutes without sunscreen. There was no shade, no nothing in the wide, flat expanse of ocean. Sungmin could feel the burn, even without moving. Any bit of him above the water stung whenever waves sprayed over him – and they did that all the time. And his poor ears – they would never be the same! They had to be the color of the life vest he was wearing by now. Not attractive.

All day he had been listening for Zhou Mi and the gunboat, but as soon as the freighter he was on had passed him by, the sound of the sea was nearly overwhelming, and he started hearing things that were simply not there. A radio playing some generic pop tune, Zhou Mi lecturing him about making sure he told someone when he got hurt, even if it didn’t look serious. . . . He really shouldn’t have gotten that new piercing, because the pain of it was starting to overpower his sunburn. So would he die of drowning, exposure, or infection first? He didn’t know. He figured drowning would be quickest. But why did he have to choose?!

The sun had been setting for hours, and now the last half of the golden disk was sinking below the waves. He wished he had a boat or a raft or something. He was so tired, and all he wanted was a little nap . . . and a radio to contact Zhou Mi and a working engine and a container of ramen. Anything, really, would have been nice. But the raft was a start.

It was wishful thinking, and he knew it, which was why he ignored the slim figure that rose a little above the waves, off toward the horizon. In the failing light, it looked kind of like a mast and maybe a prow, but Sungmin assumed it was the exposure and fatigue getting the better of him. He’d started the mission the night before, and hadn’t really gotten any sleep since. The shape of the shift had to be a figment of his imagination.

But it was very well put together. He would allow his mind to feel proud of itself for that – he expected only the best from his hallucinations, and it was pretty good as far as those went. It was a more modern looking craft that Sungmin looked at in nautical magazines and sometimes got to raid and molest the controls for a while until Zhou Mi told him they had to get to the drop off point for the ransom. And Sungmin would have kind of like to have one, once he and Zhou Mi grabbed enough money to be able to retire comfortably and in relative anonymity. That was why he knew, seeing the outline of the sails coming toward him, that it couldn’t be real.

It was taking its sweet old time to pass him by and ruin his dreams, anyways. Sungmin stared at it for what felt like hours, watching the sunlight disappear but seeing lights all along the deck, making it practically glow. Bright, almost floodlight level, and enough to see the figure of a man standing on the deck, wearing a white wifebeater and gray sweats slung around his hips. He looked kind of like a statue, arms to his sides, hands clenched into tight fists and frowning out at the darkening ocean.

It was close enough for Sungmin to see that expression – the almost hopelessness and a good deal of frustration, as if he was the one stuck out in the middle of the ocean with nothing, and Sungmin was the one with every chance of survival. As the ship passed, Sungmin was rocked by a wave that felt suspiciously like a wake.

Couldn’t be. . . .

“Hey! Hey! Cut the engines! Hey!” The man on the ship’s head jerked to the sound of Sungmin’s voice, and dark eyes caught sight of Sungmin’s flailing hands. He stared for a moment, as if he couldn’t quite believe that there was someone in the water, and Sungmin did his best to push himself above the waves. “Help me! Hey! Turn around!” Up until that point, Sungmin had been using English, but he started spouting out every language he knew, figuring that the man on the ship had to understand one of them.

He must have gotten the message somehow, running the short distance to the controls and pulling the ship around. Too sharp, Sungmin thought, nearly wincing as the small yacht dipped and trashed against being handled so roughly. The guy clearly wasn’t a sailor, but Sungmin wasn’t going to complain. Yet.

The man on the ship cut the engine, and grabbed a life preserver, tossing it out toward Sungmin. He completely overshot, and Sungmin had to swim a good twenty feet before he could even grab the rope. His hands were shaking, his knuckles white as he was pulled in, still not quite ready to believe that his would-be rescuer was real, not until he was clawing at the sides of the boat before the other man could grab his arms and help pull him up. But in a moment that took too long and that Sungmin could never remember afterwards, he was lying on the deck, panting and clutching the rope from the life preserver as if he still needed it.


Sungmin wasn’t entirely aware of what happened after that. Once his body realized he was at least relatively safe, it was like it just stopped trying. He couldn’t stand, much less coordinate his feet to move one in front of the other, so the man who rescued him was having a time of trying to get him below deck, eventually laying him down on one of the long couches in the salon.

Sungmin would have been more impressed if he had been more aware of his surroundings, but once he was lying down, the only thing he was really aware of was the coarse fabric of the couch against his cheek, and a blanket being tossed over him. He coughed weakly, and it felt like he would never get all of the seawater out of his lungs.

“Do you need anything?” Sungmin half opened his eyes, and the room was brighter than he remembered. The sunlight coming through the tinted windows was still recognizable – had he really been asleep that long? He flopped back onto the couch and groaned, feeling the cloth rub harshly against his sunburns. But other needs were made apparent as his stomach gurgled loudly. He was hungry, and so, so thirsty, and he really needed to – “Where’s the head?” he asked, sitting up perhaps a bit too quickly for his body to handle.

Sungmin never thought he would actually miss the cramped bathrooms on ships, but as he came back into the salon, he realized there were many modern amenities he liked to have that the middle of the ocean did not provide. The gunboat was bigger than the tiny yacht he stood in right now, but it was definitely less homey. Computers and weaponry of all kinds, a kitchen, a small restroom, and a few bunks, and the huge engine took up even more room than the rest.

That was when Sungmin got his first good look at his rescuer. The man was young – younger than himself, though that impression came mostly from his face. The way he stared was expectant and intense, like he had just asked Sungmin a question, and maybe he had. Sungmin wasn’t exactly in his right mind. “Do you need anything?” the man finally asked, sitting in one of the cushioned chairs and leaning back.

Sungmin’s stomach growled again, more insistently than it had before. “Something to eat?” His voice came out more raw and uncertain than he was comfortable with, but the man just nodded and stood, walking over to the kitchenette and digging through the cupboards, finally pulling out a package of instant ramen and setting a pot of water on the stove to boil. There was no cursing or pounding the appliance to get it to work. It just did. And Sungmin loved it.

Actually, he sort of loved everything about the yacht, from the bathroom that had an actual shower, to the master bedroom that was very nearly a real bedroom, to the little dining area he was sitting in. “Hunter 39?” he asked absently.

“Uh, yeah,” the other man replied. He stirred the noodles in the boiling water for a moment, before glancing up. “Do you have a name?”

“Yeah. Do you?”

There was a dusting of pink across the kid’s cheeks, even as his eyes narrowed and he looked like he was going to fight. Sungmin’s smirk widened to an all-out smile, and he continued, “Lee Sungmin. And you are?”

“Cho Kyuhyun.” A name that Sungmin felt he should recognize. Nothing came after wracking his brain for a few moments, so he let it go. It wasn’t quite as important as the bowl of noodles that was being placed on the table in front of him. A little chewy, and not quite as warm as he wanted. But it was definitely food. Undercooked, he thought. And kind of . . . tasteless? “Where’s the flavor packet?”

“Oh!” Kyuhyun stood up again, walking over to a small drawer in the kitchenette and pulling out a handful of the ramen packets. “There’s chicken, beef, original, shrimp, kimchi . . . some of the little bags of dried vegetables, too-”

“No, uh, it’s fine.” After the first few bites, Sungmin’s stomach wasn’t agreeing with the idea of having food in it again. Maybe the flavoring would be a bit more than he could handle. The bland taste of plain noodles was good enough for now. It didn’t take long to finish those, and the lukewarm water the soggy noodles were suspended in, and the bottle of water placed before him.

Sated, Sungmin used his arms as pillows and was entirely ready to sleep for the rest of the week. It was either that, or watch Kyuhyun stare at him with that blank expression. It might be fun to try to bait him into showing some sort of emotion, but right now sleeping forever was the most attractive option.

Kyuhyun seemed to have other plans. “How did you end up in the middle of the ocean?”

Sungmin didn’t sit up, or move at all, as he mumbled, “I fell,” into the crook of his arm. It was just his luck to be rescued by a Korean man. He couldn’t just pretend to not know the language and sleep until they made port.

“And no one came back for you?”

“I was alone at the time.”

“So . . . do you think anyone’s looking for you?”

“My . . . .” My boyfriend. Sungmin sat up then, worry coming back to gnaw at his insides. “A friend of mine might have started to get worried, but I’m not certain that too many people miss me.” No ‘oh, I’m sure they do,’ or ‘what about your family?’ Just a slow nod and a steady stare. Sungmin wasn’t exactly looking for sympathy, but the stare had yet to be anything but unnerving.

Zhou Mi was not the best fighter Sungmin had ever met. In fact, Zhou Mi kind of looked like a stray breeze could knock him over without too much effort. A scandalous falsehood – the man was sturdier than he looked. He could take care of himself in a normal situation, but the way they lived wasn’t normal. Zhou Mi needed him, and ok, he needed Zhou Mi. Most of his schemes would never stand a chance without the other man’s planning abilities and familiarity with electronics.

“Do you have a radio?”


Though Sungmin spent his days either sleeping or sitting in front of the radio, it didn’t take him long to realize that Kyuhyun really had no idea what he was doing. More often than not, the young man would pull the user’s manual out of one of the drawers and stare from the booklet to the controllers, tentatively moving different knobs and buttons and just generally trying to figure out how the yacht worked. It was lucky they hadn’t run into a storm yet, because Sungmin was pretty sure that Kyuhyun would have no idea what to do.

It didn’t take long to recover from his time in the ocean. A good night’s rest and some actual meals meant he was back in shape and feeling useless in a matter of days. He did sit ups and push ups on the cramped salon floor, and sometimes Kyuhyun would run below deck to look for something, but froze on the steps to stare. Sungmin would flash him a smile, and Kyuhyun would scowl and run back above deck.

The kid was fun to mess with sometimes, but he was helpful, at least. He set out clothes for Sungmin to change into, though they were a little big for him, as well as sunscreen and a hat and various creams and things to put on his burns. He was feeling more human by the day, and eventually went to sit on deck with Kyuhyun, watching him as he cursed quietly at the controls.

“Do you need any help?” Sungmin asked, leaning over the controls. The answer was clearly yes, but Kyuhyun just shook his head, attention still buried in the owner’s manual. “How long have you been sailing?”

“Uh, maybe a week or so now?”

“I mean, when was the first time you-” Kyuhyun eyes flicked to him for a moment, another steady, omnipotent gaze. “Nevermind. Where are you headed?”

“Australia, maybe?”

“Well. You’re headed in the wrong direction. We’re headed west right now, but you needed to be headed more south east,” Sungmin said, pointing to the built in compass in the control panel of the tiny bridge.

“That’s kind of easy to figure out. I just can’t make it go in the right direction.”

“Because you’re about to be caught in the South Equatorial Current. It goes with the prevailing winds. But if we want to get out of it, we need to go north. There’s an opposing current along the coast of Indonesia that should be able to help us out a little.” Sungmin tried his best, sunniest smile, trying to put the young man at ease enough to take his advice. It would do no one any good if they ended up in the middle of the Indian Ocean, with no food, water, or gasoline in the tank to push them along once they hit the horse latitudes. There was already little enough of that, from what Sungmin assumed were Kyuhyun’s attempt to power against the current.

The other man nodded finally, stepping away from the controls. A shift here or there, with all the sails automated. He was sure he could switch them to manual easily enough, but for now, they worked like a dream. A slight adjustment of their heading, his eyes fixed on the horizon. It wasn’t just enough to be on a ship – it was good to sail again. The cloth snapped as it caught the wind at just the right angle, and the ship jumped forward. “See, I knew you could do it,” he said, patting the railing and grinning like a fool. He caught sight of Kyuhyun rolling his eyes and settling against the side.

“So, uh, hyung. What do you do on the radio all day?”

“Usually I just wait to hear if there’s any news from my friend.”

“But you’ve never actually reported in to anyone to tell them you’re alive.”

Kyuhyun was looking at him expectantly, his expression as guileless as it had always been, and Sungmin frowned. “It’s kind of hard to do when you don’t speak the languages around here.”

“But you do speak English. I may not be able to understand it, but when I pulled you out, I know you were shouting in English. And Chinese, and I think I caught a little Thai in there, as well.” Still guileless, but that was clearly an act, a smile spreading across the young man’s face – he was clearly too pleased with himself.

“It doesn’t hurt to know a few phrases in other languages,” Sungmin snapped back, frowning as he returned his attention to the ship.

“Whatever you say, hyung.”


It was nighttime, and Sungmin was sitting in front of the radio transceiver, hands pressing the headphones over his ears. There had been quite a few distress calls recently, cut off too quickly for Sungmin to be able to decipher much of the situation. The ones who did managed to shout out their bearings before the line went dead indicated that the route the whatever-it-was was taking was pretty erratic, but it was slowly inching its way toward their heading. Without a gun or any sort of traditional weaponry, Sungmin had no intention of getting caught off guard.

Kyuhyun, it seemed, was really into deep-sea fishing, even if he was just as bad at that as sailing. Most of the time, he sat on deck next to one of the poles, and read a book or played his gameboy, and completely missed when there was something going after the bait. It couldn’t even be said that he was sunbathing, because he usually kept under the canopy near the bridge, or wore a hat and so much sunscreen that there was no way he couldn’t maintain his dead-looking nerd complexion. If Sungmin called him to the bridge and tried to teach him something about how to sail, he seemed open enough to learning, but he wasn’t about to volunteer his time to the cause, and Sungmin never got much of a chance to sit and listen to the radio.

For now, radio men on several different vessels were betting on poker matches on the mainland, someone was talking to his wife and listening to a newborn cry, and on one of the frequencies, Sungmin couldn’t help but think the transceiver hadn’t been properly turned off as a couple used the radio room’s seclusion to their advantage. It was more of the same on all channels – radiomen checking in with different countries and home ports. Soft chatter starting out another long, lonely night.

As he clicked through the various frequencies, listening for a moment before moving on, he very nearly missed the sniffle amongst the static of one. “This is the Bada Angae. Is there anyone out there? Over.”

“Hello.” Another sniffle. The English was a little accented, but nothing Sungmin couldn’t deal with. “Bada Angae. That sounds Korean.

Kyuhyun had looked up from his game when he heard Sungmin speak, and the other man frowned. And turned away, continuing to monitor the strength of the frequencies. “That’s because it is. What is your designation? Are you in any distress? Over.”

I’m in lots of distress,” the man said. His voice hiccupped a little, and Sungmin’s frown deepened. “My boyfriend is Korean. He’s been missing for days. I can’t find him anywhere. I don’t know what to do.” The voice broke toward the end of the monologue, and through the static Sungmin could hear little gasps and sobs.

“Zhou Mi?”

“How’d you know my name? Are you psychic?”

“Zhou Mi, are you drinking?”

“Oh, wow, that’s right! Um, what’s my birthday?”

“Zhou Mi, if that’s my merlot-” Sungmin glanced up for a moment to see Kyuhyun smiling that same, victorious smile from earlier, his shoulders shaking from laughter that Sungmin couldn’t hear over the sound of the static and Zhou Mi’s sniffling. He dropped his voice to a whisper and hissed into the transceiver, “I was saving that for a special occasion. Are you at sea right now? Why are you drinking?!”

“I told you, I can’t find my boyfriend.” The admission seemed to be too much for Zhou Mi, who’s sobbing just became louder. “What if he’s dead? What if he was eaten by sharks?”

“Eaten by – Zhou Mi, it’s me. Sungmin. I’m right here.”
There was the sound of rustling, as if Zhou Mi were actually looking for him. “No, you’re not.” Sungmin rested his forehead on his hand, wondering just how much wine Zhou Mi had. “Is this one of those things where the dead try to communicate with the living through electronics? Are you going to try to tell me that I need to move on with my life?”

“No. No, in fact, I’m not going to tell you to move at all. I want you to stay right where you are, and tell me exactly what numbers the GPS unit is telling you about where you are.” Sungmin pulled out a sharpie, prepared to write the heading on his hand.

“Oh. Um, well. I don’t think I should. Because if you’re not a psychic and you’re not a ghost, then you’re probably a government spy. Sungmin wouldn’t want me to get thrown in jail. I think I should hang up now.”

Sungmin stood up, knocking the chair over, knowing the action would do absolutely nothing as he began pacing back and forth with the microphone for the transceiver in his hand. “Wait, Zhou Mi, wait! I can prove I’m Sungmin! Ask me a question only I would know the answer to.”

“Um. Well. Describe the night before you disappeared.”


Kyuhyun knew he should feel bad, or at least sympathetic for Sungmin, who’s friend was clearly going through some sort of crisis. The fact that he had found the person he was looking for made him feel better about laughing at him, though. As long as everyone was safe and sound, it couldn’t hurt to have a laugh at someone’s expense.

But the glare that Sungmin fixed on him had his expression dropping immediately. “Cover your ears.” It was clearly an order, one which Kyuhyun did not think to argue with, until he’d actually reached up and covered them. But Sungmin looked angrier than Kyuhyun had thought possible for the jovial man, and so he didn’t try to listen in too much.

Instead he watched as a dusting of pink that couldn’t be blamed on sunburn appeared on the man’s features as he spoke into the microphone, too soft for Kyuhyun to catch. He spotted Kyuhyun staring at him, and scowled, turning around. Kyuhyun’s grin widened.

Sungmin’s posture suddenly went ridged for a moment, and he shouted loudly enough for Kyuhyun to hear. He took this as an invitation to bring his hands down. “I did not have satellites! We were inside, ok? It was too cold to do that on deck at night.” Sungmin sighed. “Yes, it’s me. I’m sorry I yelled. Yes, I - I thought I told you to cover your ears! No, not you Zhou Mi, the guy who rescued me. Yes, I’m alive. I’m alive.”

Kyuhyun didn’t bother following Sungmin’s directions the second time, listening to him babble to his drunk friend over the phone, and not letting his voice drop out for longer than it took for the person on the other end to reply. Even if it meant that he repeated himself often, interrupted himself, that contact was really all he had.

He didn’t quite understand the sudden stab of jealousy that twisted uncomfortably in his gut at the thought. Sungmin was a total stranger who he had fished out of the ocean in the middle of no where, who didn’t want to contact the authority or want anyone to know he was alive, except for this mysterious Zhou Mi. Anyone would call that suspicious.

But Sungmin smiled at him sincerely, and treated him as if he was worth his time – not just because he wanted something from his family or his father’s company, but like Kyuhyun was capable of functioning in human society and worth the investment himself. He didn’t really want to take a critical look at the other man’s motives, just like he didn’t really want to go home.

“1®15’23.84” South and . . . 100®6’19.78” East,” Sungmin repeated as he wrote the heading across his arm. “Here, I’m going to go and sail toward your location, ok? It means I need to leave. I need to get to the bridge. But I’m going to have Kyuhyun stay here and talk to you, ok? He’s the person that rescued me. He doesn’t know the first thing about sailing, so I need to do it, ok? Just tell me you’ll stay where you are.”

Sungmin seemed to get the affirmative he was looking for, and held the microphone out to Kyuhyun. “Tell him who you are,” he ordered, all his previous agitation replaced by a seriousness that Kyuhyun didn’t quite know how to interpret.

“I’m Kyuhyun,” he said into the microphone, before Sungmin pulled it back. “He’s going to stay with you. Just don’t do anything stupid and we’ll be there as soon as we can, alright?” He handed the headphones over to Kyuhyun, and climbed above deck with a grim expression on his face.

Kyuhyun sat down gingerly in front of the radio transceiver, pulling the headphones on as if he expected them to bite him. But there was no screeching harpy on the other end. Just static. “So, Merlot, huh? What kind?”

“1985 Marilyn,” the voice replied, just on this side of under control.

Kyuhyun let out a low whistle. “That’s collectible.”

“Yeah. . . .”

“I just have some Santana, I think,” Kyuhyun replied, leaning back in his chair to survey the wine rack. He wasn’t sure how it worked on the open ocean. “Still, it tastes just fine.”


Kyuhyun had to still be asleep. He had to be. A man was sitting in a frayed aluminum lawnchair on the deck of the gunboat as they approached, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, brightly-colored bermudas, and flip-flops. On his head was a baseball cap that had clearly seen better days, and aviators, and had a semi-automatic rifle sitting across his lap.

It definitely could not be the man who drank fancy wine and kept up with the dramas of maybe ten different countries and who had been crying the night before. This was Rambo. A really tall, thin Rambo with diamond-studded earrings that caught the sunlight as he stood up. But the butt of the pistol he had stuck in his belt holster also caught the sunlight and concerned Kyuhyun slightly more.

“That’s your friend?” he said in disbelief, looking at Sungmin as the other man dropped anchor. His expression was just as grim as it had been the night before, and he didn’t answer Kyuhyun at all as he went about bringing the ship to all-stop.

Kyuhyun told himself that it didn’t hurt, because clearly, Sungmin’s friend was insane, and by default, Sungmin had to be. But none of that mattered because the moment everything was secure, Sungmin dove into the water and started paddling through the waves to the other boat. There was a ladder on the side, and he pulled himself up with practiced ease, dripping water as his clothes clung to his body. Zhou Mi was waiting for him, and those were the events that lead to the most enthusiastic make-out session that Kyuhyun never wanted to see.


“He’s like a kicked puppy.”

Sungmin rolled over on the bunk, lifting himself enough to set his chin on Zhou Mi’s shoulder. The other man was leaning on his elbows and looking wistfully out of the porthole to the other ship, where Kyuhyun was sitting on deck with his book, once again ignoring the fishing rod that was jerking madly with whatever it was he had caught. Kyuhyun looked up just in time to see it be wrenched out of its holder, and he made a desperate dive for it, but it wasn’t quite desperate enough, and the fishing rod slipped through his fingers. He threw his book down on the deck and stalked down the stairs to the salon, his shoulders hunched sulkily.

“It’s not like we just left him. We can get him wherever it is he needs to go. We just wanted a little alone time first,” Sungmin said, flopping back onto the bed.

It was nice to lay in bed, lazy, for the better part of the day. And after being apart for so long, having Zhou Mi in arms reach was definitely another perk of being back. He ran a knuckle down Zhou Mi’s side just to prove he could, getting a shiver in response.

Zhou Mi spared one last worried glance out of the porthole, before settling back down next to Sungmin. Big, brown puppy eyes staring at him like that – if Zhou Mi asked him to do anything, how could he refuse? “Yeah, but . . . Well, what if he has a crush on you?”

Sungmin scoffed, looking away. “You say that like he’s an eighth grader.”

“It’s possible.”

“I know it’s possible,” Sungmin said, rubbing Zhou Mi’s bare back. That only elicited a purr, as he stretched and let his toes curl, like a giant house cat. “But then what would I do with you?” The puppy eyes again. Sungmin sighed. “You have the weirdest kinks.”

“It doesn’t have to be a kink,” Zhou Mi whined. “But can we keep him? Please?”

“Sure, but you’re going to have to feed him, and play with him, and take him for walks.” Sungmin fixed Zhou Mi with uncertain eyes. “He isn’t a pet. I’m pretty willing to bet that he has a life outside of that little yacht. He’ll get bored with us.” A new person could completely throw off our group dynamics. Will you even like me anymore if you get a new toy to play with? And will you go with him when he leaves?

Maybe they’d been together long enough that Zhou Mi could read the worry in Sungmin’s eyes. Maybe he could just read the tension in the set of his jaw and shoulders and everywhere else worry pooled in is body when it got to be too much for his mind. Maybe the man was just psychic. But whatever the reason was, it had him bending close to press a soft, slow kiss to his lips. “Talk to him. He saved your life. He deserves that much, at least.”


“What are you doing here?”

It wasn’t exactly the response Sungmin was looking for, having had to swim across the open space between the two ships once more. It wasn’t something he particularly wanted to do, his memories of being stuck out at sea, alone, quite fresh in his head. But Zhou Mi was sitting there in his lawn chair, with a live preserver by his side, and looked like he might push Sungmin in himself if he actually waited any longer. But this was part of the reason he wanted to wait for Kyuhyun to come out on deck himself – the man was glaring at him like he had killed his dog. “Are you just going to let me drip all over your floor?”

“You know where the towels are,” Kyuhyun mumbled, turning his glare back to his game consol and mashing buttons as though he wanted to break them.

Sungmin slunk off to the cupboard where the towels were kept, taking his time before he sat down across from the younger man. “So. What did you and Zhou Mi talk about last night?”


Sungmin scoffed. “Because that answer doesn’t make you sound half your age.”

“Why do you even care?” The question was voiced like a petulant teenager, but Kyuhyun was looking at him with those dark eyes, looking more mature and wise than he really had any right to be. That, and the fact that it was actually a valid question meant that Sungmin couldn’t put off answering it.

“Because you saved my life,” he said, shifting uncomfortably on the sofa and trying to maintain some sort of unruffled air. “And I haven’t really thanked you, yet. In fact, I put you pretty far off course of your intended destination. And even if I didn’t lie to you, I didn’t tell you the whole truth. I don’t know how to repay you.”
Kyuhyun’s expression was more wary now, but definitely less hostile. Calculating. Sungmin didn’t know whether or not that was a good thing. “Zhou Mi didn’t tell you anything?”

“He’s a pretty strong believer in conversations staying between the people who had them.”

Kyuhyun bit his lip, looking away, suddenly seeming a lot younger than he usually acted. “He said it was a pretty lucky coincidence that I was out there just in time to rescue you. Serendipity or whatever. But the real reason wasn’t nearly so romantic, and I told him so. When I was just out of high school, I got involved with someone who just . . . used me to get to my dad, I guess. And then when he didn’t get what he wanted, he leaked a bunch of information on our company to the public. They managed to cover most everything up, but I guess they couldn’t be bothered with my indiscretions. It was just easy to pin the blame on me after that. I got tired of getting sideways looks and so I just . . . skipped town. Or whatever.”

“That’s cold.” And what else could anyone say to that? Sungmin and Zhou Mi had their own family issues, if they had family at all. Those situations left their own scars, but it didn’t leave anything for comparison. He tried to imagine Zhou Mi leaving him in a situation like that, without even trying to help him, and just got a sick feeling in his stomach. “Did the two of you decide on anything?”

“I like it out here,” Kyuhyun said after a long pause. “Learning to sail and all that. Yeah, maybe I’m terrible at it, but I like it. But it’s not enough to just be here. I thought I would be fine with the solitude, but I was on my way to going crazy by the time I found you.” His eyes were on Sungmin again, steady and forceful. Unnerving, even, in their intensity, but they had to be. He didn’t emote in many other ways. “I know the crap you do is usually illegal. If you think you need to leave me out of it, fine. I know I’m not meant for heavy combat or whatever. But I want to stay, even if I’m no good at any of this and you want me to swab the decks or whatever.” At that point, his glare did become more hostile. “What’s so funny?”

Sungmin’s shoulders were already shaking with the effort to suppress the laughter that eventually escaped him. “Swab the decks!” The look on Kyuhyun’s face made it better, and Sungmin was doubled over in laughter, pressed against the cushions of the couch. “I should get a parrot. Zhou Mi has been complaining about wanting a pet. And a peg leg.” Sungmin dissolved into giggles again.

“I’m sure we can think of better uses for you,” Sungmin said, managing to catch his breath, but no where near capable of containing the grin that spread across his features. It was halfway to maniacal now, and Kyuhyun didn’t know if he should be concerned. “But for now, welcome to the crew. We hope you enjoy your stay. But it isn’t going to be the vacation you’re looking for.”


A/N: I know it's uber late, but it exists, and I hope you enjoyed it. 

Also, why does everyone insist that Kyuhyun tops in the whole QMiMin love triangle? Funny, ha ha, maybe on his birthday, but Sungmin is too badass, and Zhou Mi is too fierce to allow that on a daily basis. But really, all Zhou Mi has to do is put on those Miss Cool Chic boots to have anyone begging for it. That said, lololol, like I’ll ever write it. Like I’ll ever have time/inspiration/ability to not die of embarrassment.

The bassist looks kind of delicious. Not going to lie. And he looks more and more like the lovechild of The Great Kim Kibum (yes, of Super Junior. Since there are like ten) and Jang Geun Suk. And it crosses your mind that that pairing might be possible. If it weren't for his voice, Jang Geun Suk would be more androgynous than anyone in Kpop, including the ever loved and ever infamous Kim Heechul.

The video is kind of ridiculous, but I found it amusing, and the bassist who's name I still do not know, I like looking at him. So I have nothing to do but fangirl and then do my homework. And write the last two bits of KiHyuk week, which has turned into KiHyuk fortnight. I hope you'll be understanding.
19 March 2011 @ 01:04 am
Title: Dirty Little Freaks
Genre: Romance
Pairing: Kihyuk
Rating: PG13
Summary: Hyukjae knew his life had changed the moment the exchange student walked into his first period gym class. A songfic based on P!nk’s “Raise Your Glass,” and this week’s episode of Glee.


A/N: The best moment in Glee history. Also, references to the most angsty.


Right, right, turn off the lights. We gonna lose our minds tonight.

Hyukjae knew exactly what he was doing. Not that it was something he’d ever done before. At seventeen years old, there weren’t a lot of choices out there for a guy who happened to like guys. So maybe he didn’t know what he was doing, but his body definitely felt like it did. On that front, at least, he knew exactly what he wanted.

But his inexperience twisted in his stomach like sickness. Should he turn off the lights? It was still the afternoon, with mottled sunlight streaming in through the window, so what could it do?

“Leave it on,” Kibum said. He was already reclined on his bed, his eyes intense and knowing. As always. “You should always know what you’re getting into. Turning out the lights, closing your eyes – that won’t make it go away.”

Hyukjae didn’t want any of it to disappear. This was what he’d been waiting for, and if the rug was pulled out from under him again, he didn’t know if he’d ever work up the courage to keep trying.


When Lee Hyukjae imagined his first time, he always saw it with a woman. Even if he knew they terrified him, that he didn’t want them, that he didn’t find them attractive, the thought of his parents’ disapproval usually terrified him more. It was a phase he was going through – a really long phase that had started with him wanting to hold other boys’ hands in kindergarten and lasted up through high school when his friends would score porn magazines and Hyukjae did his best to seem interested in the because he was supposed to be.

And, well. He could think of a few guys who he wanted to do some of those things to him. So the stash under his bed continued to grow, and though his reputation took a hit from this discovery, no one ever questioned his sexuality.

Hyukjae didn’t question it, either. He knew the moment he’d been placed in gym class with one Kim Kibum that there was no questioning it.

Physical education was not Hyukjae’s worst class, but it certainly wasn’t his best. He might have been quick, but he wasn’t competitive, and if a ball was hurled his way, he was more likely to dodge it than to try to catch it. His concentration took a hit, too, when Kibum was transferred in.

The boy was from America – his Korean accented, but understandable. And the accent was kind of hot, and so were his arms, and the way his gym shirt clung to his chest, and whenever he brushed his sweaty hair out of his eyes. All these things were perfect, and then he would catch sight of Hyukjae, distracted, getting hit by a dodgeball when he wasn’t paying attention. The hit didn’t even hurt, even if Hyukjae had to be sent to the nurse.

Kibum had smiled, an expression that stayed with him for the rest of the day. He didn’t know if it made him want to laugh or cry, but the feeling shivered through him for a moment, and that was when Hyukjae knew he was completely and totally screwed.

Whenever he saw Kibum next, it really did feel like something had gotten stuck in his throat. He was sort of glad, because he knew if he tried to speak he would probably end up saying something stupid, thus ruining already astronomically low chances.

But all of his well-laid plans of staying well away from Kibum never quite worked out. They always ended up being on the same team in phys. ed., because his friends all had to be nice to the new kid. The same thing happened in literature, and pre-calculus, and in English. But he was sort of thankful for being paired with him in that class. Kibum had the very best grade, and he hadn’t even been there for two weeks. Hyukjae had the absolute worst.

So Hyukjae was excited. School-enforced Kibum-interaction time meant that no matter what Hyukjae did that was stupid, he could blame it on his piss-poor knowledge of the English language.

But Kibum, apparently, was not so excited. They broke up into their groups, the chatter in the class drowning out everything else, nearly covering up Kibum’s words.

“Listen, I don’t know what I did, but whatever it was, I didn’t mean it.”

Hyukjae’s brain froze halfway through trying to remember a stupid English pickup line that Donghae once taught him. “What?”

“You stare at me all the time like you want to throw me on the ground, and you’re really bad at hiding it.”

Hyukjae’s mind had stopped at throw me on the ground, but he got the basic idea and went immediately into defensive mode. “No, no, no, no, no! That’s not it at all. It’s. Um.”

Hyukjae didn’t know that he had actually ever spoken to Kibum. In fact, he was pretty sure he always did his best to stop talking and disappear whenever he approached, smiling that perfect smile. And oh, when you put it that way, Hyukjae was the biggest idiot in the history of idiots.

Kibum was looking at him like he was waiting for an explanation. I’m totally in love with you, even though it makes me a freak, so don’t mind me, somehow managed to sound really stupid. “It just isn’t,” Hyukjae finished lamely.

And Kibum smiled his perfect smile, and Hyukjae did his best to smile back without looking like a total dork.


From that point, Hyukjae was nearly glued to Kibum’s side. Maybe not directly to his side, because he still imposed a distance of at least one person between them. They were friends, which was more than Hyukjae thought was possible before. And in Hyukjae’s mind, nothing else was possible. There was such a disconnect between what he wanted and what reality was, and at the same time, Kibum was right there, in arms reach. It was just safer to keep his distance.

But even that didn’t last long, because wouldn’t it be too suspicious if he jumped away the moment Kibum threw an arm around his shoulder? And it was impossible not to walk close enough to jostle each other in the hallway.

Every precaution Hyukjae tried to take crumbled away, while the world stayed whole. The four horsemen were not riding a swath of destruction across the continents. Demons hadn’t possessed anyone he knew recently, except his math teacher, but he was pretty sure the man had it out for him even before Kibum appeared.

So it was the most natural next step, inviting Kibum to his house to work on a project for English. “So, yeah, my parent’s aren’t home yet.” Not that Kibum needed to know that or anything. “Um. We have food. And Coke, I think, if you want anything?”

“I’m fine,” Kibum said, shaking his head. He held onto his books and things for a moment, looking as uncertain as Hyukjae had ever seen him, before he let his backpack slide off onto the floor beside Hyukjae’s, while the other boy tried his best not to imagine what his shirt would look like, sliding off of those arms.

And time passed quickly enough. They could forgo the English dictionary, Kibum dictating most of the words, laid back about that part even if he was a dictator with pronunciation.

“Where is the bus station, bus – it’s more of a ‘buh’ sound, no, keep moving your lips like that. ‘Buh,’ not ‘puh.’”

What might have been hobbling Hyukjae’s abilities was the fact that he felt like Kibum was asking him to make stupid kissy faces at him. He turned away, knowing he wouldn’t be able to concentrate as long as Kibum was staring at him as he tried to make the sound again.

He figured he must have daydreamed the brush of fingers against his chin, but he didn’t try to dream away the pressure in them that made him turn his head toward Kibum.

And the kiss, well . . . it was just a kiss. Just everything he could have every wanted in the simple brush of skin on skin. Kibum. Acknowledgement. Contact with another human, a human he wanted, found attractive, and could have kept kissing if surprise hadn’t frozen him in place.

And it felt like it was over in less than a second. Kibum pulled away, his eyes downcast. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have – we should get back to practicing.”

“I thought we were.” Hyukjae could feel his face go red the moment he said it. But it wasn’t like it mattered. In a moment, Kibum was too close to be able to tell.


They’d made it half way to the stairs, in full view of the front door when it opened. Frozen in place, hair mussed, Kibum’s shirt finally gone, there could be no mistaking their intentions. His father stared at him, eyebrows raised. It felt like forever before he finally spoke. “I think you should probably leave.”

Hyukjae tried to shrink into the wall as Kibum stepped back slowly, glaring at Hyukjae’s father like he might say something, might fight. One step, hands still on Hyukjae’s shoulders. Another, and the first one fell away. Kibum looked at Hyukjae then, as his other hand squeezed his shoulder, and slid down his arm as he turned to pick up his shirt, and pulled it on. One last smoldering look, maybe expecting him to do something, say something.

And then he was gone, the door pulled quietly shut. No trace he had ever been there except a fast pulse and a disapproving stare. But after a moment, his father went to the living room and turned on the television. “If I ever see him here again-”

Hyukjae nodded quickly, grabbing his backpack and running up the stairs to his room.


Hyukjae didn’t even have the chance to scuttle away in embarrassment the next day at school. In gym, Kibum volunteered for the other side’s captain in three-on-three basketball, on the other side of the gymnasium. They didn’t have any group work that day in literature or pre-calculus. He completely disappeared during lunch period.

Every avoidance twisted his gut in knots. He’d completely lost his appetite, even if he’d been too afraid the night before to go down for dinner, and too scared to do anything more than run through the kitchen and grab a piece of bread before running to school that morning.

But it was almost time for English. They were working on a project together. That didn’t get to just disappear. Hyukjae took his seat next to Kibum’s. The other boy walked in almost as the bell rang, sitting down gingerly and staring ahead at the chalk board.

“Hey.” Not the most incredible opening, but he had a captive audience and was more nervous that he had been in his entire life. Kibum’s eyes flickered to him, before moving back to the chalkboard. “I need to talk to you,” Hyukjae tried again.

“Let me guess. It meant absolutely nothing, and I don’t have to worry about you ever telling anyone. Let’s forget about it and just be friends.” Kibum had never been angry at him before, and his entire body spoke of the emotion. Lips twisted into a frown, eyes narrowed, glaring. “Not a school appropriate topic. People hear more than you think they do.”

“I don’t care if they hear,” Hyukjae said, trying to keep his voice low.

“You will,” Kibum replied, crossing his arms and staring fixedly at anything but Hyukjae. “Class is starting.”

By the end of the period, Kibum had asked the teacher if he could switch partners.


Someone had heard. Dirty little freak was painted in several different colors across his locker. Sloppily. Misspelled. But everyone knew what it meant. His gym uniform started disappearing, and people told him he belonged in the girl’s locker room. Whenever a teacher’s back was turned, someone was throwing something at him.

The first time someone tried to beat him up, though, Donghae was there, and ended up with an out-of-school suspension, and ‘fag lover’ painted on his uniform. Even if he had a girlfriend. Even if he was captain of the soccer team.

There were a few bright points in the next few months. Heechul almost immediately traded Donghae’s ruined jacket and wore it around school. Donghae stayed almost glued to his side. A few of his old friends, who had not so mysteriously vanished from their group for a few days slowly trickled back to their regular lunch table, lead forcibly by Heechul or threatened by Donghae or simply crushed under the weight of their own shame.

Hyukjae didn’t really care what their reasons were. The person he wanted to come back wasn’t there.

Kibum didn’t escape the worst of it. Once in the hallway they passed each other, Kibum’s eyes stuck on the floor as he dripped what looked like the remnants of a purple slushie down the hall, his dank hair plastered to his face, his shoulders hunched in a very un-Kibum-like matter. Hyukjae had wanted to say something, and reached out to try to grab Kibum’s shoulder or something, to stop him and see if he was ok. Kibum brushed his arm away as if it was nothing.

During their lunch period, Kibum sat conspicuously alone at one of the corner tables. It got to the point where his friends started migrating between the two tables, changing custody like divorced parents, because they had been Kibum’s friends, too. Someone was always with Kibum, and someone was always with Hyukjae. But they were never all together. Yet another thing that was inexplicably wrong.

Not everyone could be around all the time, either. Hyukjae walked home, and more often now he tried to take alternate routes. Because he inevitably was pushed into a dumpster, or ended up with a black eye, or worse. Today looked like it was going to be one of those days.

A couple of jocks loitered at the entrance of the alley Hyukjae usually cut through to get home. They flicked their cigarettes to the ground and stomped on them, arranging themselves in the alley so there was no hope of just shuffling around them. He clutched his satchel a little closer as he walked forward. As if that was going to protect him.

They’d pick him up under the armpits and grab his ankles and toss him into a dumpster like a sack of potatoes, because if he fought back they just kicked him until he didn’t. He took a deep breath and closed his eyes, waiting for it. What he heard was a grunt of pain. He opened his eyes and saw one of the other boys on the ground, holding a bloody nose, and Kibum striding purposefully toward him, grabbing his hand and almost dragging him away.

They walked like that for a few blocks, Kibum not speaking a word no matter what Hyukjae tried to say. His grip hurt, and only got tighter as Hyukjae tried to get out of it. He eventually let go when they got to a crosswalk, sticking his hands in his pocket and crossing the street.

“Wait a second!” Hyukjae shouted, chasing after him. “You can’t just swoop in and leave like that!”

Kibum ignored him until they got to the opposite sidewalk. “And you can’t quit! Do you ever get to a point where it’s just not worth bothering with anymore? Can’t you just give up?”

Hyukjae stopped. The words twisted in his gut uncomfortably. “Do you really want me to?”

“It’s too much to deal with for another person! Can you please worry about yourself for once? I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but it isn’t exactly healthy to get beat up every day.”

Hyukjae shuffled his feet a little. “It isn’t every day.”

Kibum almost seemed amused at that. Not completely happy. Hyukjae hadn’t seen him smile since the afternoon his father had walked in on them. But it was an improvement. “Can I come home with you?” he tried.

Kibum did smile at that, and choked out a short laugh, though it was mirthless. “If your parents freaked out, how do you think mine feel?” Hyukjae frowned, but held his ground. For once in his life, and it seemed to work out. Kibum laughed again, and this time it wasn’t a complete mockery of the sound. “Why not. They’re on a business trip.”

This time Hyukjae smiled. A bit uncertainly, but this was better than the complete lack of communication from before. “We could throw a wild party.”

“And who would come?” Kibum laughed. He took Hyukjae’s hand again, not with a crushing grip this time, and not walking so fast Hyukjae thought his arm would come off. He just pulled Hyukjae a little closer, and slung an arm over his shoulder.

They got a few weird looks, and someone muttering, “That’s so wrong,” loud enough for them to hear it as they passed. All the comments and glares only seemed to put Kibum in an odd mood. He pulled Hyukjae closer, leaning in to kiss his cheek, or blow in his ear. Perfectly wrong, in all the right ways.


A/N: I don't even know whos prompt this is supposed to be: People can tell when you stare at them like that.

Due to a sudden influx of homework and homework and family issues, KiHyuk week feels like a failure. Also, my family knows my screen name. So I might change it. Or I might just write a really smutty gay threesome to get them to stop. That, or I start writing badly written fanfiction that just hurts to read. But whatever it is, to my family: it's really creepy. Get off of livejournal. This is where I go to escape the harsh realities of living with you. I am in college. Forgive me if I feel entitled to some independence and privacy.
19 March 2011 @ 12:57 am
Title: Parenting 101
Genre: Is there a genre for kids making fun of their parents? What would you call that? Disney channel?
Pairing: Kihyuk
Rating: PG13
Summary: Hyukjae doesn’t know what to do with an angry teenager. But Kibum has ideas.


“What did you do to my car?!”

Hyukjae looked up at Kibum the moment he heard the shout. The other man was sitting in his chair, reading the newspaper as though nothing was happening.

But things were happening, namely, Hyukjae calling into question his own ability to be a parent. Kibum and Hyukjae had been living together for years, and at some point had decided it would be a good idea to move to California and try the whole ‘get married and start a family thing.’ Kibum had family in California, so it was not such a horrible idea as he thought at first. The past twenty years of his life had probably been the best he’d ever had, but now. . . .

Kibum glanced up at Hyukjae only once when they heard the door slam open. Hyukjae didn’t know if it was possible to look both exasperated and supportive at the same time. But Kibum managed it.

It was a skill Hyukjae envied when their son stomped into the house, glowering as he dropped his jacket on the floor in the middle of the hall. Kyuhyun was seventeen now, and it felt like they fought every single day. Over really stupid things, too. Kibum just said he was a teenager and let most things slide. Hyukjae was the one who stayed up all night and worried.

And Kibum’s logic seemed good enough. No matter how late he stayed out, his homework still got done. No matter how much Starcraft he played, his grades were still somewhere around astronomical. And finding out that Hyukjae was digging through the contents of his phone was probably what made him give everyone in his contacts a numerical code rather than a name.

But screaming at each other wasn’t going to solve anything, so Kibum finally stepped up and decided to put an end to it. Because no matter how angry he got, Hyukjae never quite worked up the courage to ground their son.

But . . .

“What did you do with my car?” Kyuhyun repeated, a little slower this time, like he was talking to a child. He got that way more often now, as if anyone who didn’t love music theory, complex algorithms, and geometric proofs was mentally incompetent.

“I was under the impression that you were grounded,” Kibum replied, not looking up from his newspaper.

“When have you ever actually gone through with it, though? And seriously, where did you hide my steering wheel?” Kyuhyun had begun pacing, agitated that this problem was not quite as easily solvable as the ones he was usually confronted with in school. He was starting to look desperate, too, which made Hyukjae wonder, and worry.

“But seriously, who does that?! I need my car! How am I going to get to school?”

“Ride the bus,” was Kibum succinct answer.

“With a bunch of eight graders?” The tone in his voice spoke volumes to what he thought of that.

“It’s funny, because that’s sort of the age you’re acting.” Kibum folded up his newspaper and set it aside. His hair was starting to go a little gray, but honestly, it just made him look even more distinguished and sexy, so there was no way Hyukjae was going to complain, even if he bemoaned his inability to age gracefully.

Kibum patted the couch beside him. “We need to have a talk.” Hyukjae let out a sigh of relief. “That means you have to talk, too.” And Hyukjae’s nervousness returned.

Kyuhyun frowned, but slumped down on the couch, bringing one of his knees up to his chest as he crossed his arms. Hyukjae sat in the old, grungy-looking easy chair that sat in the corner of their living room. It looked . . . really, really bad, but it was the most comfortable seat in the house. But he could hardly enjoy it if he was worried about his son getting angry at him again, or Kibum just . . . just looking. Kibum could have the most unnerving stare.

But luckily he was smiling now, maybe laughing at his family’s discomfort to himself, or maybe just trying to put them at ease. But he wasn’t going to wait for everyone to get comfortable, apparently. “This is what we’ve come to. Sitting down and talking about our feelings.”

“We wouldn’t need to if dad would just-”

Kibum’s gaze wasn’t particularly threatening. In fact, he looked like he was going to wait for Kyuhyun to finish. Of course, Kibum might as well have said, “Any time you’re done spewing stupid out of your mouth.” The stare could make anyone squirm.

“Who wants to start?” Kibum finally said, once it was plain that Kyuhyun wouldn’t speak any more. “If not, I’ll start. Kyuhyun is a teenager-”

“Yeah, no shit-” Kibum’s stare cut the teenager in question off again.

Kibum turned back to Hyukjae, who was frowning. He hadn’t asked for Kibums help so that he could get lectured. “And as a teenager, he’s able to start making more of his own choices. Even if you disagree with those choices, he’s still going to have to make them for himself. A little independence before college shouldn’t kill him.”

Kyuhyun looked triumphant enough to ask for his car back, or at the very least, try to get the steering wheel back. He was smirking like he just won something. Hyukjae scowled back, before Kibum turned back to his son. “You still shouldn’t bitch at your father. Which, by any definition, is what you’re doing. Change your tone. Be a little more polite. It won’t kill you, no matter how much you think it will.”

“What about the computer?” Hyukjae asked suddenly.

“What about it?” Both Kibum and Kyuhyun spoke this time, in the same eerie, challenging voice, both sets of eyes locked on him.

“Uh, just . . . he’s on it an awful lot, you know, and I worry about his grades. . . .”

Kibum turned to Kyuhyun, “How’s you’re GPA?”

“4.75.” Again with that holier-than-thou smirk. Hyukjae blinked. On a 4.0 scale? Had they changed something with the system since he’d gone to school?

Kibum seemed to think that was all the answer that anyone needed. And suddenly, both of them were talking about something in Starcraft that Hyukjae didn’t understand. Was it over? It had ended, and Kyuhyun still didn’t seem to be grounded, and it didn’t feel like everything was resolved. “Is that it? He doesn’t even have to apologize to me? What about all the times he refuses to clean his room, and leaves his clothes and shoes lying everywhere?”

Kibum sighed, schooling his face into a serious expression. Hyukjae’s heart soared for a moment – Kibum could get through to Kyuhyun, even if he couldn’t. “Son,” he said, his voice even and serious. Hyukjae needed to learn how to do that. “I am disappoint.”

But that did not get the reaction Hyukjae had been looking for. Both Kibum and Kyuhyun were laughing as if they had heard the funniest thing in the world.

“Why is that funny?!”


A/N: I use memes to confuse my parents . . . they’re decidedly less cool than Kibum and Eunhyuk would be. AND DON’T LOOK AT ME LIKE THAT, KYU POSTER. I KNOW IT SUCKS. STOP LAUGHING LIKE THAT.
15 March 2011 @ 11:18 pm
Title: Why Mimes Don’t Wear Stilettos
Genre: Crime Thriller
Pairing: KiHyuk
Rating: PG13
Summary: Kibum has been chasing this murderer for years. And he lands on his best bet at catching him by accident.


Every breath that rushed out of his lungs burned as he ran, pushing pedestrians out of his way. Back in high school or in the police academy, smoking was just the thing that everyone did, and no one thought about what consequences it might have later. Kim Kibum hadn’t touched a cigarette in years, but the feeling of breathlessness, like someone had welded metal bands around his lungs, it was so familiar.

But he pushed the thoughts to the side and forced his legs to keep moving. Because it was a matter of life and death if he stopped. Detective Kim had been working on this case, chasing a serial rapist and murderer, for the better part of three years, and against all odds had caught a glimpse of the man as he tried to abduct another woman. Chasing him through the streets of Seoul with other detectives and police officers, nothing was going to stop him now. Certainly not a stupid mistake he had made as a kid.

He could feel the sweat soaking his hair, running into his eyes and making his dress shirt cling to his skin. He brushed his bangs out of his face and plunged on through the crowd, catching a glimpse of a baseball hat there, the surgical mask the man used to hide his face there. And Kibum was gaining on him, to the point where the crowd hadn’t swallowed up the space that the man made as he forced his way through.

They burst out of the rows of vendors and into an open park. The crowd was thinner, and could see the men running – the suspect, followed closely by Kibum, with other officers trailing behind and trying to keep up and shouting into their handheld radios. Fewer people to slow the suspect down. Fewer people to hide him from Kibum. He was wearing a dirty looking leather jacket meant for colder weather, Kibum could see now. Everything about him screamed wrong, now that Kibum was getting a better look at him. Maybe not the best glance, but Kibum was getting used to knowing the freak. They would be spending many long nights in the station together.

He could hear cop cars in the distance, rushing to surround the park. The suspect crashed into a snarl of people standing around in the central part of the park, where several paths met, and knocked over a woman standing with her children in his haste. Kibum nearly jumped over her, refusing to slow down even the slightest and give the suspect any sort of advantage. He had him, he almost did, he just needed to go a little faster –

That was when about a hundred and fifty pounds of well-muscled police officer crashed into an unsuspecting mime. Both Kibum and the mime tumbled to the ground, Kibum scraping his hand on the pavement as he tried to twist away before he could crush the man. His knee smacked against the pavement, and he barely noticed, jumping to his feet and scanning the crowd.

No baseball cap. No surgical mask. An ugly brown jacket discarded on a nearby bench. The thrill of the chase, the promise of finally catching the man who had made his life hell and who invaded his nightmares melted away into ugly, black anger as the other officers ran up. One of them helped the mime to his feet.

Kibum ignored them, still looking desperately around the crowded park for anyone who seemed to be in too much of a hurry, anyone who looked a bit off. But there was nothing.

His phone began vibrating, and he wiped his sweaty, bloody hands on his pants before pulling it out, surprised it even worked. There was a large crack across the screen as he flipped it open. “Detective Kim.”

“Run, run, run, as fast as you can,” the voice said, before breaking off in cackling laughter. There was a beep, and then nothing as the call disconnected.

Disgust and frustration warred within him, but both feelings were directed at himself, so he didn’t think it mattered which one eventually emerged victorious. They were back to square one, questioning people and hoping for even a fragmentary description of the man they were looking for.


“You’re an idiot.”

“I know.”

Heechul looked up from wrapping Kibum’s bloodied hand, exasperation covering his delicate features. “You’re not an idiot for the reason you think you’re an idiot, though. Not that those reasons wouldn’t be totally correct, in this case-”

Whatever Kibum had been thinking – probably something along the lines of ‘why do I work with this man?’ – must have shone on his face when he looked up at Heechul, because the other man snapped, “Tearing yourself apart isn’t going to help anyone, especially not if you’re doing it literally,” clasping the injured hand in a way that would have been friendly and supportive if it had been anyone but Heechul, and if it had been whole. “Next time, have the medics check it at the scene before you come crying to me. I work with dead things, remember?”

“Yes, mother.”

“Ya! Young people these days,” the coroner muttered before stalking off to his lab. Heechul had been waiting at the door when he heard they were bringing in another victim, a grim expression on his face that had sagged in relief the moment they helped the crying woman out of the squad car.

Donghae was with her now; he was better at being emotional and supportive, and didn’t put people off like Kibum knew he could. The Kibum Effect was well-known around the department. Half of anyone they brought in burst into tears and confessed everything that they did, even if they weren’t a suspect. This wasn’t always a good thing – no one needed a witness bursting into hysterics the moment someone entered a room to get their statements. Kibum didn’t think he was that scary or intense. Outside of work he considered himself a fairly normal individual. His friends were mostly normal, and he spent his nights reading, watching television, or playing video games.

Donghae had explained it once as a vibe he gave off – “It’s not like anyone thinks you’re going to kick puppies or hurt them or anything. It just feels like you already know everything there is to know about a person, and there’s no point in hiding it.”

At the time, Kibum had told him it was stupid, and childish. But all the same, he started keeping away from the emotionally compromised witnesses. That meant he was watching Donghae sitting in the interview room from behind a tinted window. He opened the door to the sound booth where a technician was recording the interview, filled with many pauses and stifled sobs. “I just keep remembering watching the news and seeing those women, and thinking what would happen if it was me. What would my parents-” The woman’s words were cut off by another sob. “It could have been me. I could be dead right now, and my family-”

“But you’re safe now,” Donghae was saying. “We’ll be placing an officer with you to make sure you’re protected. You don’t have to worry about him coming after you ever again.”

“But that guy was a psycho!” the woman sobbed. She was dressed in a skirt and suit jacket, a lawyer who had just gotten out of a meeting with a client. Kibum picked up the manila folder sitting by the bored-looking technician, leafing through it. Not a trial lawyer – her firm dealt with mediation of fiscal disputes and the like. There were pictures, too. Just printed off, of the injuries she had sustained. Her face had been blotted out. She had nearly refused to give her testimony in the first place, saying she could lose her job if anyone found out what had happened.

The woman was still shaking and sniffling, but her actions spoke more and more of anger. She reached down and started tearing at the buckles of her shoes, kicking them off and across the room, to hit the wall with a thump. “’Such beautiful shoes, such shapely legs,’ the man was disgusting! I’ll never wear heels again.”

Kibum was not a connoisseur of designer fashion, but the shoes looked familiar, similar to others he had seen all too recently on the bodies of other dead women. Donghae must have noticed it, too, because the next thing he said was, “Do you wear them often?”

The woman crossed her arms, leaning back in her chair. “Does everyone have a shoe fetish today? Yeah, I wear them. I have to dress like a man and act like a man in everything else to get people to listen to me, but at least I can wear shoes and still feel like a girl. God damned bastard-” She broke off whatever she was going to say next, her eyes narrowing. Maybe imagining what she would like to do with those shoes if she ever got her hands on the man. Not every victim wanted to fight, but a proactive person who wanted revenge could be just as dangerous to the investigation. People who went looking for trouble usually found it, and landed on Kibum’s desk in the middle of his already massive workload.

Donghae could handle the rest of the interview. He’d get the shoes to the forensic department. Kibum already had what he needed for now. He stuck a picture of the woman’s shoes into his pocket and left the dark room.


“Alejandro Ingelmo.”

“You’re sure?” Kibum had barely taken out the picture, but the store clerk nodded vigorously, prepared to defend his answer.

“I remember selling them, too,” Zhou Mi said, his expression falling from confident to distraught in a matter of seconds. “$650 USD. Classic Black. She’s not dead, too, is she?” he continued, his voice dropping to a whisper.

Kibum glanced up from the picture, watching as the well-dressed man fidgeted behind the counter. He wasn’t supposed to discuss ongoing investigations with civilians, but the man had lent his expertise to the investigation on numerous occasions, and was on his way to losing his business because of it. “Not this one, no.”

Zhou Mi let out a long breath, mumbling something in Chinese before saying. “You don’t know how glad that makes me. I just want this all to be over. I’ve been thinking about closing down for a while. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt.”

“If you did that, the investigation would really have to start all over,” Kibum said, putting the picture away. “Your store is the only link we have.”

For a long time, the owner and proprietor of the little designer boutique was the primary suspect in the string of murders. Kibum had interrogated the man, bugged his house, and nearly ruined his business and reputation in an attempt to solve the case, all to find out that he had been after the wrong man after all. Hidden video recorders set up in the man’s apartment both provided an alibi for three separate murders and told Kibum everything he never wanted to know about how flexible the tall Chinese man really was.

The fact of the matter was that Zhou Mi liked shoes – not women, not violence, and not blood. All three of those things could be found in various amounts at the crime scenes.

The police department had issued an official apology, and even offered to pay some restitution, but Zhou Mi had refused it. Kibum didn’t really think the man had forgiven anyone, and certainly didn’t want to make friends with any of them. But his desire to help was sincere.

Kibum watched as the store owner puttered around at the computer, downloading the security footage for the police to review. “Hopefully you’ll see a lot less of me soon.”

Zhou Mi nodded, though he looked as if he wasn’t sure he should be happy about that. “With any sort of luck.”


After a few days, the flurry of activity surrounding the near capture of the murder suspect died down. Kibum returned to the park for lunch one day, sitting on a bench to watch people as they went about their business. There were a few picnics on the green areas, and joggers passing by with headphones dangling around their necks as they talked with one another, and a group of school children laughing at the mime who had been performing there the day Kibum had lost the suspect.

Kibum wasn’t quite sure how to go about recognizing a mime – the makeup looked a bit different from the previous day – but he figured he could recognize the same thin shoulders, and the hair slicked back beneath the hat. Then the man moved the same way, too. It wasn’t just the fact that he was a mime – his expressions were covered in thick make-up to accentuate them, but it all moved the same way. Some things people just couldn’t hide.

Like the fact that he was pretty clearly favoring his right arm. The children were still delighted by the man’s antics, but once the teacher herded them past, the mime let out an overdramatic, silent sigh that seemed to completely deflate him, as he walked over to the bench, and sat down next to Kibum rather expectantly.

All without saying a word. For a moment, Kibum wondered who had interviewed the mime. He knew someone had to. Everyone they could stop at the park had been questioned at least briefly for any description they could give, and a mime was sort of hard to hide.

“Are you looking for an apology?” Kibum was starting to feel like his life was spent saying sorry to people. ‘I’m sorry for your loss, I’m sorry but its part of an investigation, I’m sorry for making you public enemy number one, I’m sorry for messing up.’

The mime shrugged, reclining against the bench. His expression was open. Expectant. And Kibum had no idea what to do. “You at least had your arm looked at?”

The mime didn’t nod, but instead went right into a routine – he was apparently a doctor, sticking a stethoscope in his ears, and listening to his arm. After a moment or two, he mimed grabbing his arm and breaking it over his thigh like a twig. Kibum didn’t think it was very funny, but the mime was beside himself in silent laughter. Ok, and maybe Kibum laughed a little, too once he got over the shock of being made fun of by a mime, but it was still very not funny.

The conversation, or what passed for it, eventually drifted off as Kibum’s mind went back to the case, trying to think of where the suspect could have escaped to, or going over what else the victims had in common.

He was apparently so lost in thought that the mime was getting impatient. Poking a coin insistently at his forehead was easy enough to translate – ‘a penny for your thoughts?’

Kibum waved him off, scooting a little further away on the bench. The Mime mad a good show of looking scandalized. “I can’t discuss an ongoing investigation with – how did you even give your statement?”

The words felt stupid the moment they left his mouth, seeing the other man smile. The Mime was silent as part of the job. The man could speak if it was absolutely required, but until then, he played charades to annoy people like Kibum. Because that was how the world worked.

“Have you seen any suspicious characters hanging around lately?” Kibum looked his companion up and down. “Besides yourself?”

‘Why, I ever,’ was another expression that was easy to read, as the mime crossed his arms and looked away.

“You’re kind of obnoxious,” Kibum said, standing up and meaning to walk away. But of course the mime would follow him, walking beside him like he belonged there. Not with the long gait of a man intent on following someone, but up on his toes, with his hands clasped behind his back, almost weaving as he walked. “What are you even trying to do?”

But his questions were never answered – the actions of the mime just became more and more girly as Kibum walked back toward the subway that would take him back to work. He twirled an imaginary parasol. He walked in imaginary heels. He pretended to spin in his imaginary skirt. And when Kibum finally crossed the street to the station, he waved an imaginary handkerchief at him, because apparently mimes couldn’t cross streets.

Kibum had to stop himself from waving back. It was kind of annoying and embarrassing, but the mime had been amusing, and had taken his mind off of things long enough to be able to jump back into his case with renewed vigor.

He couldn’t be too angry.


Halfway to the Police Headquarters, he got a call from Donghae, giving him an address. The killer had struck again.


Donghae’s expression was grim as he pulled off plastic gloves and the shoe covers they had to wear at crime scenes. Grim wasn’t an expression common to the man, and it was certainly one that didn’t look like it belonged. If Kibum really wanted to dissect what was going on in Donghae’s mind, he would say it looked more like the man was trying to stop himself from being sick.

“Hey, man, your eyes are kind of red,” a technician said, smacking Donghae on the back before walking back to the crime scene.

“Allergies,” Donghae mumbled after him.

Donghae didn’t have the constitution for this job. But given a long enough trajectory, no one really did. They got to a certain point where they were in over their heads, and they knew it was time to quit. Or they were made to quit. Donghae was a cop because his father was, and he was a good officer, a loyal friend to have at your back.

Blood and violence and human depravity were not something he was built to understand. Kibum didn’t really think he was, either, but sitting back in their car and letting out a sigh, the analysis was almost second nature. “He’s angry. We saved one, and now he wants to tell us that it doesn’t matter.”

Donghae only nodded, still looking out the car window and away from Kibum.
Kibum could have said something about how that meant the man was unsettled, and would start making mistakes, but those words were empty. How many more people would have to die before those mistakes added up to something substantial enough to bring this case to a close?

Kibum considered reaching out, shaking Donghae’s shoulder, getting him out of his funk, when there was a knock on his window. He sighed and opened the door for Heechul to lean in. He held up a clear plastic evidence bag with designer shoes in them. “The particulate analysis will tell us more, but there was some mulch and leaves stuck in here that are a visual match to what we’ve found on the other bodies. He’s still taking people from the same place.”

Kibum resisted asking ‘How?’ It was the question he had to answer.


Kibum didn’t think he would find himself back at the park so soon. There were more interviews to do, and more evidence to go over. Despite the fact that this was his lunch hour, he wasn’t here to relax. On the way back from interviewing the newest victim’s parents, he passed the park and had something of an epiphany. One that probably wouldn’t pan out, but something he had to ask.

He waited for the mime to finish a performance or get tired of annoying an old man who had come to feed pigeons, whichever one it was. And then the mime pranced over, back in his female persona. Kibum decided he would ignore that.

“Acting like a woman is probably dangerous, since this is the area all the women were abducted from,” Kibum said, keeping his voice even.
The mime looked genuinely shocked for a moment. Not overdone or dramatic, just what would be normal for a normal person who didn’t dress up in striped shirts and suspenders. “Does this mean I need a lawyer?”

“You’re not a suspect,” Kibum replied. The man’s voice wasn’t quite what he expected. Kibum hadn’t actually braced himself for hearing the mime speak at all. He sounded more . . . uncertain than he had expected.

“Then, I mean, why tell me all this?”

“How often are you in the park?”

“I’m not going to lie. It sounds kind of like I need a lawyer,” the mime said, backing up a little.

“Listen, you might be in a position where you could have seen something, or someone. Even if you didn’t know to recognize it for what it was, it could still be helpful. So how often are you in the park?”

“A couple hours each day. If I don’t have class or work, I’ll come here and try to earn a few extra bucks.” The mime’s expression was still guarded – god, he was having a conversation with a mime to try to solve a case – but he didn’t look like he wanted to run away quite as much.

“What do you study?”


“That’s actually . . . that’s perfect for what I had in mind.”

“How? It’s not like acting can help a cop.”

Kibum had taken out his wallet as the mime was speaking, digging through it for his business cards. “If you come in to the station, I’ll detail the rest of the plan. Whenever you have time.”

The mime was chewing on his lip as he stared at the card. “I have class right now, but. . . .”

“No, that’s fine. I’ve got some things I need to prepare, too. Just whenever you have time,” Kibum said, and turned to walk back to his car. It wasn’t until the doors were closed that he pulled out his phone. “Zhou Mi? I have a bit of an odd request. . . .”


“This is definitely dangerous,” Donghae said, spinning back and forth in his chair. “And probably illegal.”

Kibum didn’t disagree. The plan was dangerous, and probably stupid. It was Donghae’s way of saying, nicely, that he was probably getting too involved in catching the man. It was why they were sitting, waiting for Hyukjae (Kibum had finally found out what his name was) to get off of school. Most people had to put in extra hours at the station, so it wasn’t unusual at all to see them sitting at their desks.

What was more unusual was that Zhou Mi was with them, sitting in an extra chair and tapping his foot. He’d notice, and stop, but then the other would start bouncing moments later. It was no surprise the man was nervous. He couldn’t have had any happy memories about the department. Couldn’t have, but Heechul loved him, and had apparently assigned one of his interns to be the man’s servant for the afternoon – Kibum couldn’t think of any other reason that the kid kept bringing him coffee, then seemed to have raided the dispatcher’s doughnut stash (so vast that no one would miss it. At least, not much). The kid also looked like he needed to raid someone’s stash of facial scrub, but Zhou Mi wasn’t complaining, so Kibum wouldn’t either.

“We’ll just wait until Hyukjae gets here and see what he says,” Kibum replied. “And I talked to the captain. He said . . . well, he said it was an idea, which is better than anything else we’ve had recently.”

“And I don’t disagree,” Donghae replied. “It just seems like there’s a lot that can go wrong.”

“And there’s no guarantee that it will work, either. I mean, the guy seems methodical. There’s a lot of things you have to do right to pull off-” Zhou Mi realized that both of the officers were staring at him and closed his mouth, turning an interesting shade of pink. “I’ll be quiet.”

“You’re the only one who knows anything about what we’re trying to do,” Kibum said. “If you know anything, we probably need to hear it.”

“What are we trying to do?” Kibum looked up at the sound of the voice. Without the mime costume, Hyukjae looked like any other college student, standing back a ways, shifting nervously from one foot to the other.

“Kibum wants to dress up as a woman so that he can bait the serial rapist into trying to kidnap him, and your job is to tell him what a terrible idea that would be.” Donghae’s word vomit covered most of the important points, except for Hyukjae’s job. And his partner did look genuinely worried. Kibum could understand it. But Kibum didn’t want to make a civilian do it, and there wasn’t anyone else in the department that would know who to look for. Maybe he was putting a lot of stock into his few glances he had caught of the man as he was being chased, but it really was their only option.

Hyukjae seemed to take the information in for a moment, staring at Kibum. Then he laughed. He laughed for a few minutes, actually, having to lean on one of the empty desks to support himself as he laughed, and then eventually moving to sit down when the giggling wouldn’t stop. He covered his face with his hand, shaking his head as he began to calm down, and finally looked back up at the conspirators.

“Oh, God, you’re serious!” Mirth had been replaced with anxiety. “You know there’s no way that works, right? I mean, I’m assuming you brought me in because you want acting lessons, but there’s more to it than that.” He was talking a lot faster now, words tumbling out of his mouth as he tried to argue against the idea. “There’s this vibe you have to have, and- You’re just staring at me, and it’s really uncomfortable.”

Kibum’s eyes flashed to his computer, but then back to Hyukjae. “I’m sorry?”

“No, but that’s exactly what I mean! Your aura is too overpowering. Or something.” Donghae was nodding vigorously in agreement. “There’s no way it works. Even if the man you’re looking for is blind, there’s just no way.”

“He get’s it,” Donghae said. “Listen to him, if you aren’t going to listen to me. We don’t have any actual women who can do it. It was a good plan, but it won’t work right now, so we need to try something else.” He turned his puppy dog eyes from Kibum to Hyukjae. “Thank you for your help. We’re sorry for wasting your time.”

“Well, I mean, you know it’s not like you don’t have anyone who can do it,” Hyukjae said, fidgeting in his seat and pulling his satchel into his lap, almost using it as a shield.

Donghae and Kibum shared a glance, and then both turned to Zhou Mi. The man shifted in his seat uncomfortably and mumbled, “What about Heechul hyung?”

“No, actually I was going to say . . . .” Hyukjae trailed off for a moment, before clearing his throat and continuing, “My class did a version of Taming of the Shrew where we cast everyone as opposite genders, because we didn’t have enough men to fill the male roles, but we had plenty of women. Everyone said I was the best Katherine Minola they had ever seen, including our professor, who studied on Broadway.”
Zhou Mi nodded, considering. “I could definitely see that. And if you had a longer wig to hide the sides of your face,” he said, gesturing toward the side of Hyukjae’s head.

“That’s all very nice,” Kibum interjected, trying to stop the line of thought before it could get too far, “But involving a civilian is what we were trying to originally avoid. There’s a better chance of seeing the captain dress in drag than signing the two of you on.”

“That’s funny, because I’ve seen your captain at one of the Transgender clubs my last boyfriend worked at,” Zhou Mi mused. “He looked better before he started working out.”

“Well, we’re already involved, and even a female cop is going to get made if the guy is as smart as everyone is saying,” Hyukjae replied. “This is just the kind of thing that I do. So hook me up with as many tracking devices as you can manage, and we’re practically open for business.”

“I mean, you’d need the right dress, too,” Zhou Mi added. He rolled his chair closer to Hyukjae’s, so that they could collaborate easier. “A club dress, so shorter, but with enough flare or ruffles that it’ll hide the lack of curves and the package, and shoes! Kibum-ssi, can I?” Kibum nodded mutely, not quite sure where to find his voice. When it had been him, he hadn’t had so many qualms. It was his duty, his penance for failing to catch the man the first time. “It hasn’t been released to the general public, but the killer only attacks women who wear certain designer shoe labels.”


The dress the two eventually found was perfect. Ruffles on the bottom to hide what needed to be hidden, and in a baggy sort of style. The collar came up all the way to cover the chest (or lack thereof, but both of the new resident experts assured them that was something that could be fixed). The only thing they would have to worry about would be the adam’s apple, but with a good enough wig and bad enough light, Zhou Mi assured him that anything was possible.

Kibum and Donghae kept out of it. Once permission was granted, there job was essentially to watch and wait. They decided that Kibum would be the one to accompany Hyukjae, on a ‘date.’ It was the ultimate challenge to the killer’s authority, feeling collected enough to bring someone on a date in the middle of his well-defined territory.

“Zhou Mi brought the shoes,” Kibum said, walking into Hyukjae’s living room. The man had opened the door, and Kibum did a double-take. Smooth legs. Not hairy man-legs. Travelling up into, well . . . everything about Hyukjae had been softened. His shoulders looked thinner without a t-shirt to cover them, or the striped mime shirt to make them look any wider. Between Zhou Mi and Hyukjae’s theater department, someone had found fake breasts.

Face. Look at his face.

Hyukjae was halfway through putting on his makeup, so one eye was very smoky and dark-looking, and the other was not.

“Yeah, just set the box on the couch,” Hyukjae said, retreating back into the bathroom.

Kibum followed his directions. Sort of. He sat himself on the couch, and the box in his lap, and did his best to think about old ladies in nursing homes.


The club was hot, and full of crazy people who moved like they were having seizures. Getting drinks was a nightmare of wading through those people and then paying an arm, a leg, and one’s firstborn child, so Kibum also figured that there would be no problems with staying sober and prepared for anything.

What Kibum was not prepared for was Hyukjae’s hand on his thigh, as he shouted, “Relax!” over the pounding bass.

Kibum was not going to relax. Not as long as there was possibly a serial killer in the vicinity, as long as there might be other victims to worry about, as long as there was any possibility of the plan not working, as long as Hyukjae’s hand stayed where it was.

Kibum was glad the bar was so difficult to get to. Otherwise, he would have been trying to drink himself into oblivion. Hyukjae pulled him onto the dance floor a few times, headbanging and bouncing around to a few songs in such a way that he had no idea how the long wig didn’t fly off.

They be actin’ like they drunk . . .

Hyukjae was really good at acting like a drunk girl, giggling obnoxiously and climbing all over him, and getting a little floppy, so there was a lot of ‘accidental’ inappropriate touching, that was totally appropriate to the setting and the general atmosphere of the club. But there was also a lot of Kibum imagining the very male body beneath the female disguise, something he was not drunk enough for. Not at all.

‘Start getting ready to leave.’ Donghae’s voice crackled through the ear piece. ‘The timeline for the previous abductions is approaching.’

Kibum didn’t make a reply. He figured a little acting wouldn’t hurt. It was what he had intended even before Hyukjae got involved. The man was sitting nearly in his lap, swaying maddeningly to a slow song. Not paying attention. Might even miss what Kibum was about to do.

He bent down to Hyukjae’s bare shoulder, kissed it, and trailed his lips up to Hyukjae’s ears. “We need to get going.” He imagined the shudder that sent through Hyukjae. The man was training to be a performer. It couldn’t have been real.

But it was the perfect time to leave. After the rush of people trying to get in. Before the rush of everyone leaving. Kibum would leave his tipsy ‘girlfriend’ to find her own way home. That was the plan, and it was looking less and less attractive as the evening went on.

They stood, Kibum with a protective arm around Hyukjae’s shoulders, and they bypassed the dance floor, the bar, and the bouncer who nodded and wished them goodnight.

A little ways beyond the entrance to the club, Kibum stopped Hyukjae, and turned the other man-woman-creature to face him. “Maybe I should walk you home.” This was a really bad idea.

Hyukjae laughed, still using his falsetto, and punched him in the shoulder. “You have work in the morning. Worry about that. I can take care of myself.”

“It’s nothing to drop you off. I mean, I have a car-”

“You’re a cop! You can’t drink and drive,” Hyukjae laughed, turning on his designer heels and wobbling a little as he walked off. Hips swaying maddeningly. Kibum watched him go, but had to keep himself from following. There were squad cars and under cover cops on every block for the next few miles around the club. Hyukjae would be safe. He would be. There was no way the killer would get far. If he got anywhere at all. He might not even be out tonight.

Kibum turned. He had to get back to his own car. Be prepared for the call.

That was when the shot broke the silence.

He hadn’t even completed the turn before he sprinted back in the direction Hyukjae was headed. Saw a form crumpled on the ground. Pulled out his own firearm but couldn’t, for the life of him, see where the shot came from.

And on the sidewalk, in bright, sprayed-on lettering, was written, “You honestly thought that was good enough?”


A/N: THAT WAS SO LONG. AND IN ONE DAY. /slits wrists. Cereal, your mission, should you choose to accept it, is as follows: I just want to be a normal boy. JK, I just wanted to see your face when you read that, as revenge for taping faces on the pushies. Your actual prompt is as follows: Ale-Alejandro, Ale-Alejandro.
Title: Retreat Means 'Run Away While You Still Can'
Genre: Humor, fluff
Pairing: Kihyuk
Rating: PG-13
Summary: The sexual connotations of parallel parking. Kibum accompanies his boyfriend on a company leadership retreat, but he should have known what he was getting into before they eve packed their bags.


Masochism. That was the only way to explain it – the only way that Kibum could justify to himself why he dated an insurance salesman.

He knew the image that those words conjured in his mind, a fast-talking man in a fedora with a gummy smile and an odd accent, wearing an old suit and going door to door to swindle people out of their hard-earned money. The only thing Hyukjae brought from that picture was the gummy smile.

He had a better car than the old-time insurance salesman would have, for one. Not that it was sexier. Kibum always pictured a sputtering Impala with a wonky radio that only picked up one or two stations on a good day, but a car that would turn heads no matter what.

Hyukjae drove a 2010 Audi, but he treated it like a classic car. The slightest change in fuel efficiency – and Kibum had no idea how the other man could tell – had him under the hood, checking valves. If his foofy dog needed to go to the vet, it sat in its carrier, and the carrier was set on towels, and the car was detailed the next day.

Not brought in to be detailed. Heaven forbid anyone lay a finger on his baby. Once he got off of work, he would pull his little vacuum out of his glove compartment and go to town.

Kibum loved Hyukjae – he really did. And he did happen to believe that love was a study of how much someone was willing to put up with the bad habits of another person – a person who got all up in your space, a person who you knew exactly where they had been – and sometimes still had no explanation for why they smelled so funny.

Because Hyukjae had to put up with plenty of things, too. The man was neurotic, and Kibum – he liked to leave sleeping dogs lie, as well as pajamas, old underwear, and books. He would let them lie just about anywhere, even if Hyukjae thought they should lie in dresser drawers, in the laundry basket, or in bookshelves.

Because he was a masochist, because he loved Hyukjae, because he wanted to spend time with him, even if that time was strictly regulated – those were the reasons that Kibum found himself in an equally dustless rental, his stomach grumbling as Hyukjae drove. Because heaven forbid they eat in the car, even if it wasn’t his car. An hour ago, they were almost at the leadership retreat in Pusan that Hyukjae’s company was making him attend.

They were still only almost to the retreat.

“They’re putting us up for the weekend at a resort for one of our major clients,” Hyukjae had said, his smile dim and uncomfortable. “Two nights and three days. I get paid for my time off, but I know you don’t, so you don’t have to come-”

Pusan. Resort. Off work. Those were the things that Kibum’s mind latched onto. That, and the thought of getting to this place, and getting Hyukjae out of his clothes and doing the uncomfortable, messy things that he would never admit to enjoying until the heat of the moment got the better of his orderly mind. And really, with plans like that, who was Kibum to refuse?

But Kibum hadn’t eaten since breakfast at six, when they checked their baggage and had stopped for coffee at the terminal in Seoul. They had reservations at a fancy restaurant, which they were now circling in the rental car, trying to find a parking space.

The thing was, Kibum had seen plenty of perfectly acceptable parking spaces. He’d watched as Hyukjae passed them, slowing down to consider the dimensions before frowning and moving on to the next. Meter, on street, in a parking lot behind a bookstore. Nothing was quite good enough.

“What about that one?” Kibum said, pointing out the window to a spot in an alley beside a tattoo parlor.

“It’s too dark. There are probably gangs,” Hyukjae replied, glancing around Kibum to the indicated spot as he continued driving.

Kibum just sighed and closed his eyes, leaning his forehead against the cool window of the car. He loved Hyukjae. He really did.

Hyukjae was just one of those stupidly safe drivers – the ones who never got into an accident in their entire lives, because Kibum spent his entire life behind one of them until the passing lane opened and he could escape. The ones who never went a mile or two over the speed limit and still slowed down when a cop car passed. The ones who stopped at stop signs and forgot that they weren’t going to turn green to tell them that it was ok to go.

And apparently, the ones who wouldn’t even consider parallel parking between a “hoodlum’s big-ass truck” and a sportscar. There was just too much liability there for Hyukjae’s poor insurance-salesman soul.

Kibum had taken out his phone, and was trying to watch a TV show on it while he waited. But every show he wanted to watch, there was someone eating food. And when the gurgling, death-rattle of his stomach overpowered the monologue of the main villain Hyukjae looked up at him with worried eyes.

“We can try this one,” he said tentatively. It was one they had passed before, one that had been overlooked because of its position between the tail end of a minivan with bumper stickers from what had to be ten different honors students and a fancy looking import. The import was gone, and had been replaced by a smaller sedan.

Hyukjae’s face was a mask of concentration as he eased slightly ahead of the spot, and then angled the steering wheel and backed in ever so slowly. Kibum’s mouth watered as he imagined how wonderful grilled beef would taste, or stuffed and fried peppers, or – “Why are we pulling out?” Kibum asked as the car changed gears again and began pulling forward out into the street.

“I didn’t do a good enough job pulling in,” Hyukjae replied, angling the steering wheel once more.

In. Then out. Then in again. There was a pattern to it, a rhythm pulling out a little more, and then getting a little deeper into the space. But never quite hitting that g-spot.

And finally it was done – more painful than exciting, and Kibum slammed the car door behind him without making that comment. It was, after all, why he topped and Eunhyuk writhed beneath him like a girl, making all sorts of interesting noises. But saying that out loud was not the way to hear those sounds any sooner.

Those were just the odd quirks, the habits and formalities that had to be passed to actually get to the good stuff – past airport security and rental car paperwork mix-ups to swimming pools and backrubs and free wifi. Kibum was determined to enjoy the remainder of the vacation, and he’d make sure Hyukjae enjoyed it, too. Even if it was against his will.


A/N: lady_hanaka: Who you gonna call? And if you say anything besides ‘Asian Ghostbusters,’ we have serious problems. It would mean we no longer matches.
14 March 2011 @ 05:55 pm
Hey, everyone, I know I don't have a lot of readers, but I'm doing a posting for Help Japan. I know money is tight, but whatever you can do, you do. And writing is about all I'm good at, so here goes:

You can find my post HERE to start bidding.
12 March 2011 @ 10:34 am

Hello, everyone. Recent Events being what they are, we should all help out our fellow humans in the face of great tragedy. Even if our only marketable skills are creative writing.

But what will I auction?

Short fiction or creative nonfiction between 5,000 and 10,000 words. I can write requests for original fiction, or fanfiction. This limitation is for everyone's sake - getting me kicked out of school for killing my grades will not help Japan, and rushing through anything longer will compromise the quality.

The fandoms I feel comfortable writing in are as follows:

+Star Trek: Voyager,
+Fire Emblem (Version Seven Only),
+Avatar: The Last Airbender,
+Super Junior
+Crows Zero
+Harry Potter
+Samurai 7
+NCIS (pre season 6)
+(others upon suggestion and consideration. I may have forgotten something.)

The auctioning hasn't opened up yet, and I'm not even sure I'm on the list to donate.

All this is subject to change with the rules of the auction.
12 March 2011 @ 12:16 am
Livejournal, I take issue with the fact that you tell me that comments on my own posts are things I do not have the authority to view.  I'm fairly certain I do.